Timing
by SylvanDryad
Summary: COMPLETED. Sometimes peace is bittersweet
1. Default Chapter

This story is set up to be the first of several related short stories. Each chapter could stand alone but because they are connected I intend to put them together.  
  
My posting does not depend on my receiving reviews but may affect how quickly I post since interest will probably motivate me to move faster. It's just human nature.  
  
*  
  
This story is about a couple I believe could have a love story of their own. I haven't seen anything else about this couple, but I hope you enjoy what I think could exist. It is set immediately following the signing of the peace treaty.  
  
Besides the main line of Pre-NJO EU novels, some of the background information in the story is from the novella "Interlude at Darkknell" by the dynamic Zahn and Stackpole. It's found in Tales of the New Republic and as such I lay no claim to it or any of the other characters, locations or plot details. It all belongs to Lucasfilm and those who reside therein. I'm writing this because once an idea comes into my head I can only get rid of it the hard way. Enjoy!  
  
*  
  
Timing  
  
Part One - Reflection of a Politician  
  
Mon Mothma stood in the empty room that had, only a few hours ago, housed one of the most momentous occasions of galactic history. She found herself contemplating whether it was a stranger sensation to be walking freely around the Imperial flagship or to face the fact that she didn't feel any of the emotions she expected.  
  
Instead of the satisfying relief suffused victory she had always assumed she would feel as signatures were added to a just and right peace treaty, all she felt was empty. Wistfulness had been an integral part of her personality for many years now. Every victory for the rebellion and then the New Republic had come with a high price, and the more years passed the higher the price seemed to be and the more the weight of it sat on her shoulders. She'd watched lights blink out on battle displays, faced the return of depleted ranks missing familiar faces. She'd written letter after exhausting letter of official condolence to the families and she'd seen the faces that gazed on her in anger and despair for her mistakes, mistakes that had cost lives. She'd done it all, and at the end of each day she would stand in her suite alone gazing out the window. She'd look out over the streets of Coruscant and believe that when they won the war she'd feel fulfilled and know that it had all been worth it. Or maybe she was just hoping she could begin living.  
  
And now she stood at this moment, and there was no life for her to live. What was left for a retired diplomat who'd dedicated her life to rallying the galaxy around a cause that no longer existed?  
  
The door opened behind her and she heard quiet measured footsteps. They seemed loud in the deserted hall.  
  
"And now life begins anew." A familiar voice said quietly as the footsteps came closer.  
  
"Waxing poetic, General?" she asked, turning to greet her long ally and adversary. "I've come to believe it is a result of spending too much time in hyperspace. Staring at the starlines in that eerie nether world does strange things to the head."  
  
"Perhaps," came the reply although it was doubtful how much she'd truly heard. It didn't matter. He'd just been using conversation to bridge the ever uncomfortable gap between them.  
  
"It's over." Bel Iblis stated softly, almost more to himself than his companion, "It's over."  
  
"Such a relief at last." She lied.  
  
"Or that's what you told the holoreporters anyway," was the knowing response.  
  
Mon Mothma looked up at him and her lips drew tightly into a flat line. Perhaps he'd always been able to catch her lies and equivocations. Maybe better than she ever had. And this time she knew all too well which lie he was talking about.  
  
"Garm, it was never."  
  
"I know. The politician is often obligated to do things for her cause, her people. No matter which individuals might be hurt, she must do what is best for all." there was the trace of a smile on his lips. "You have always been the consummate politician." "And you, the consummate general," she answered plainly.  
  
There was a long pause as Bel Iblis regarded her, shock barely discernable in the lines around his eyes. He seemed to be searching for an appropriate response to the tribute he had been paid by many but had never expected to hear from her lips.  
  
Finally he just said, "Thank you. I never knew you thought so, particularly since I abandoned the war."  
  
"I know why you left." "I shouldn't have."  
  
A wistful smile flitted across her lips and face. "Perhaps."  
  
He wouldn't take that from her.  
  
"There was no need for me to try and divide the Alliance. It was tentative enough right then and I knew it. There was no reason for me to leave and try to drag others with me."  
  
"Perhaps there was reason." "No! No there wasn't." he was insistent, "Somewhere I always knew that. It was pride."  
  
"It was justified." She answered in a tone that brooked no argument. This man may have walked away from the alliance, but he'd returned just when they'd needed his knowledge, despite it all.  
  
"Wars never run smoothly," she said awkwardly, not sure exactly what she was trying to tell him. "Credit isn't always."  
  
"I know. I know that now. We needed unity and you were the only one at that time who could give find it." He shrugged, "It took me a long time to realize that. That's why I came slinking back."  
  
Mon Mothma chuckled, "Senator turned General Garm Bel Iblis never slunk anywhere."  
  
"You'd be surprised," he answered, "I still believe I owe my life to the quick thinking of my contact and a smuggler who taught me how to slink around." He sighed, "after Arianna and the children were killed."  
  
"I'm sorry, Garm."  
  
He looked at her, surprised. "Sorry for what?"  
  
She met his gaze, "I never told you I was sorry about your family." He turned to stare out the transparisteel.  
  
"My losses were only among countless others." She struggled with the words.  
  
"I wrote literally thousands of letters to the families of soldiers expressing my sympathy, but I never turned to you and said those words. I am sorry, Garm." He shook his head in a dismissal of her apology.  
  
"No one did, really," he said, "It just wasn't discussed." He sighed.  
  
"Everyone had the same story to tell, the same reason for fighting the Empire. Acknowledging it wasn't necessary."  
  
He looked at her then with a quizzical expression that revealed a long held emotion.  
  
"Every one of us was there because the Empire had finally hit close enough to wound us personally," he paused, "Except for you."  
  
"And Bail," she responded with a speed that suggested she'd been expecting this, "and I don't see why you've seen fit to leave yourself out. You were working for the rebellion before."  
  
She trailed off.  
  
"Yes," he interjected, "and if I'd jumped instead of just dabbling my feet, they wouldn't have gone looking for me on Treitamma and gotten them instead."  
  
"You can't blame yourself." Mon Mothma responded. It was an overused cliché but she meant it.  
  
He chuckled bitterly, "Indeed. You mean that don't you. And you say it to everyone but yourself."  
  
"Perhaps." Was all she said. She seemed distant even though she was standing right beside him. Her eyes were glued to the starscape before them. The dim light made her seem cold, like an ivory statue built as a monument to her work.  
  
He stared out at the stars in silence too, as unsure as ever of how to bridge the parsecs that had stretched suddenly between them. Distance and time had always fluctuated like that, as around a black hole.  
  
"You should be proud, you know." He finally said candidly. She looked at him.  
  
"Madame Chief of State, Senator-"  
  
"I no longer own either of those titles." She cut him off firmly.  
  
"I use them out of respect. If anyone deserves them it's you. Madame Chief of State, you have built a galaxy to be proud of."  
  
"Thank you, Garm." And she turned away from him again but not before he caught sight of the small tears at the corners of her eyes. He placed a hand on her arm.  
  
"It's too late, isn't it?"  
  
Her gaze stayed fixed on the window. "Yes. It always was."  
  
They stood like that, frozen in silence, for a long time as the ship drifted in space. The reception in the next room could be heard dimly through the walls. Joy and laughter seemed, somehow, far away from this place.  
  
"Do you suppose we'll still be invited places?" Mon Mothma finally said.  
  
"To ceremonies and receptions?" Bel Iblis smiled, "I'm sure we will. After all, by now we're historical relics. We could go on tour."  
  
She laughed politely.  
  
"Let's get out of this dark room." He suggested cheerfully. "People are going to believe we've gone senile."  
  
"It wouldn't do for them to think that now would it?" she responded in the same tone as she took his arm.  
  
"I don't know. It could add some real colour to the galactic history texts." He replied with a twisted but genuine grin.  
  
She looked at him and shook her head.  
  
"Every once in awhile you remind me you're Corellian." 


	2. Shall We Dance?

Thank you for the comments on part one *  
  
In the process of writing this part I was given details of the late Mon Mothma's personal life of which I was not previously aware. Since these details have been skirted in the official fiction, I've chosen to ignore them in my little drama, since it's somewhat AU anyway. Ah, the power of writing.  
  
*  
Once again, I'm making no money from this story and none of these characters belong to me. They just visit sometimes.  
  
*  
  
Part Two ~ Shall We Dance  
  
The room sparkled and shone. Light streamed in the windows and couples laughed and danced. Sentients smiled in delight at meeting old friends, and in the middle of it all was a celebration of union and happiness. This was the wedding of Luke and Mara Jade Skywalker, possibly the most cheerful event since the signing of the peace treaty. Certainly, it was the happiest moment in the lives of the bride and groom at least. Mon Mothma had made that comment to Garm Bel Iblis and he'd turned to her in surprise.  
  
"You approve?"  
  
"You don't?"  
  
Garm felt himself backpeddling quickly. She was the only person who could make him do that.  
  
"No, I do. I'm just rather surprised that you do."  
  
She raised her eyebrows and waited while he continued.  
  
"After all your speeches stating that nothing good could ever come from the Empire, and your assertions about the jedi."  
  
"Old Republic Jedi, Garm, had a different galaxy to live in. Luke Skywalker is a new jedi for a new galaxy."  
  
"When did you write that?" he asked shrewdly.  
  
"I didn't," she responded breezily, "I read it in his profile in last month's Coruscations.  
  
He caught the tiny grin as she turned back to the view of the dance floor.  
  
"And the new galaxy needs married jedi?" he asked, hoping to capitalize on that smile. He saw it all too rarely.  
  
She didn't disappoint.  
  
"The jedi need to integrate themselves with society. I told Master Skywalker that a year and a half ago. Jedi doctors and teachers; a jedi in every city-."  
  
"A nerf in every oven," he cut her off.  
  
"Now you're making fun of me," she responded.  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it." was the quick response as he offered her his arm,"care to dance?"  
  
She looked slightly startled. "No I need to get home."  
  
"So soon?"  
  
"Yes, it's getting late."  
  
"And you have a high powered meeting to go to tomorrow?" his expression was comically skeptical, and seemed to fluster her a bit.  
  
"No, I."  
  
"Or maybe you have a sunset to watch."  
  
She looked startled for a moment but quickly recovered, "The sun went down half and hour ago, Garm."  
  
"All the more reason to stick around and enjoy the celebration. Weddings are supposed to be a good time."  
  
"I've been to a few of them before."  
  
"I remember when I got married," Bel Iblis went on, a nostalgic smile on his face.  
  
"So do I," she murmured quietly.  
  
He watched her profile in silence for a moment then touched her arm.  
  
"Just one dance," he said quietly.  
  
"I'm retired, Garm. I'm through with making political statements."  
  
"Dancing with me is a political statement?"  
  
"It could be viewed that way."  
  
The room erupted into applause as the new Skywalker couple embraced at the centre of the dance floor. Under his hand, he sensed Mon Mothma flinch.  
  
"I'm sure it will be dwarfed by the other political statement in the room."  
  
He tucked her left arm under his right. "Come on. I haven't done this in years."  
  
"I never have."  
  
Despite his surprise at her admission, he didn't miss a step as he led her onto the floor. Tentatively, she placed her left hand on his shoulder and he took her other hand in his. Without preamble, he, briefly, instructed her in the steps and then pulled her a bit closer and said, "Just follow my lead."  
  
"You've waited a long time to say that to me, haven't you?"  
  
"Years," he agreed.  
  
She chuckled a little and allowed him to lead her around the dance floor.  
  
They kept their silence for a few minutes, settling into the upbeat rhythm of the music. As Bel Iblis shifted his hand from her waist to her back to guide her in the steps, he began to feel awkward, as though his arms and legs were big cumbersome things that could easily miss a step or beat and embarrass them, or more importantly, her. He hadn't felt like that about dancing for years and he didn't think this was the best time for such adolescent reactions to suddenly return. He had to admit to himself that there were few, if any, other dance partners who could make him this nervous. So when song ended and he asked if she wished to continue, he was admittedly relieved when she stated again that she should go home.  
  
"I'm not as young as I once was, and certainly not as young as most of the group here." She'd said wryly.  
  
Strangely, he hadn't noticed.  
  
His request to escort her home was greeted with a strange, far too discerning look and then a tentative acceptance.  
  
They offered their final congratulations to Luke and Mara Jade Skywalker and walked out slowly, their arms at their sides.  
  
The night was surprisingly cool for the summer, a reminder that even on the planetwide city that was Coruscant, the seasons changed from warm to cool and then back to warm again. The cycle of life went through its phases like a moon, always returning to where it began and following through again.  
  
"Well," began the former general. His voice strained in the awkward silence, "that was one of the most pleasant events I've been to in years."  
  
"It was lovely, wasn't it." Mon Mothma agreed. "It's a symbol of the rejuvenation of life following years of destruction, and it's a fabulous precedent. After all, if Luke Skywalker who has lost so much can find happiness and move forward, maybe the rest of the galaxy can - to say nothing of Mara Jade."  
  
Bel Iblis found himself slightly annoyed by her comments.  
  
"Why does it always have to be about politics with you?"  
  
Her response was quick.  
  
"Because I'm a politician."  
  
"A retired politician."  
  
Anger bloomed in her eyes.  
  
"The day you stop analyzing military tactics is the day I stop seeing the political significance in daily events."  
  
He sighed, "Okay, I'm sorry."  
  
She nodded but did not otherwise respond.  
  
They walked on in silence.  
  
The walkway they were on was nearly deserted, most of those who lived in this part of the city being long in bed. The air traffic around them seemed far away as well lending the illusion of privacy to the whole situation.  
  
"Perhaps we should have taken an air taxi." Mon Mothma finally suggested' "I'd forgotten it was such a distance."  
  
"Are you tired?" he asked, slowing his pace to a stop and surveying the airways to see if there were a taxi nearby.  
  
Somehow she missed the genuine concern and instead took it as a taunt.  
  
"Of course not. It's not that long a walk. It just seems rather out of the way for you."  
  
"Well, I'm not so decrepit I can't handle a bit of a walk."  
  
"No, of course you're not,"  
  
Decrepit was the last word she would ever use to describe him. This led to the internal question of what word she would use to describe him: competent, loyal, charismatic. He'd always had a remarkable sense of humour. He was tall, a fact made all the more evident in the way he carried himself: like royalty. He and Bail had both walked ever as though they wore crowns on their brow, and the responsibilities of state on their shoulders. After all these years, after the weight of it all, Garm still walked with that presence.what she had once believed was arrogance. Belatedly, she realized that they still stood in silence, each one gazing at the other, no closer to home.  
  
"Would you like me to flag down a taxi?" he asked, recovering his composure first.  
  
"No, that's okay," she said, "I'm fine if you are."  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
They walked on in a silence that was now awkward, filled with the uncertainty of two people who no longer understood their roles in the play: two actors listening desperately for a hushed cue from a prompter. What do I do next?  
  
After a few minutes of unbroken quiet, they reached the steps of Mon Mothma's complex.  
  
"Thank you for walking me home," she said in a stilted fashion, unfamiliar with the etiquette of the situation, or perhaps, she had to admit, all too familiar with it.  
  
"Thank you for the dance," he responded with equal uncertainty, voices that he hadn't heard in years yelling advice in the back of his mind. None of it was applicable here. None of it would work with her.  
  
He ignored it.  
  
"I'm afraid this event has kept us out terribly late." She said into the silence, noticing, over Bel Iblis' shoulder how close to the towers the moon had become.  
  
"Or awfully early," he remarked, refusing to follow her gaze.  
  
She smiled, " Yes, or very early."  
  
There was a slight chuckle in her voice that made him smile too.  
  
"Goodnight Mon Mothma." He said, inclining his head ever so slightly.  
  
"Goodnight, Garm." 


	3. Memento Manarai

Thank you for the feedback on part two. As in the first two parts, I own no part of the Star Wars galaxy and I'm writing this out of admiration. Imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery.

Enjoy.

Part 3 Memento Manarai

The Manarai Mountains were touted as the most beautiful view on all of Coruscant. Rent was hiked several hundred credits based solely on that view. Potential tenants would survey leaky faucets, uneven floors, and tiny storage centres with a skeptical eye. One glance out the window and they signed the lease. Stories were circulated about marriage proposals accepted entirely on the promise of an apartment with a Manarai view. And yet nothing could be said of that distant view that would compare with what it looked like from the back verandah of Mon Mothma's summer cottage in the mountains themselves.

She'd been escaping out there more and more lately. Strictly speaking, escape might be the wrong word. She would admit to herself that there were few affairs of state or interplanetary crises that required her attention these days. Those events occurred of course but someone else always dealt with them. And yet her time in the cottage still seemed like an escape, time to herself. She had no Force ability but she'd done her reading. She knew the value of meditation and silence. What she couldn't understand was why she seemed to need more of it now than she had during the Rebellion. Surely, when her decisions had affected the lives of millions and ended the lives of thousands, she'd have felt more of a need for silence and contemplation than now that she had retired. But life rarely made the sense one expected it to, so it shouldn't surprise her that the most relaxing days of her life were becoming oddly unsettling, filled with the vague feeling that she'd forgotten something important, like turning off the oven. She couldn't figure out what it was.

The setting was perfect, the cottage had more than she could ever need and she had absolutely no obligations out here. Even the holojournalists didn't bother with her cottage – a blessing of the Force if there ever was one. Still, as she sat in the old fashioned rocking chair watching the wind blow through the trees, she couldn't shake that unsettled feeling, like something was missing.

"Don't be silly," she told herself, "at your age; it's too late to worry about what you don't have. Enjoy what you do. Who knows how long you'll still have it." Feeling that this must be better advice than she was giving it credit for, she grabbed one of her many holodisks and started to read it. Catching up on her pleasure reading was just one of the many things she'd planned for her retirement. She'd made remarkably little progress so far.

As Garm Bel Iblis crested the hill, he could see Mon Mothma in her rocking chair on the back porch of her mountain retreat. He'd never visited her here before. The fact that he knew where her cottage was was a point of shame for him. When he'd first begun his campaign against her, he'd sent spies out to follow her and find out what she did with her time. He was looking for the signs of a dictator biding her time. Finding this private retreat had helped him justify pulling out of the Alliance. The Emperor had planned most of his atrocities from a private mansion. The fact that Mon Mothma possessed such a place seemed to prove to him that she would indeed set herself up as an Empress someday. He referred to it as "the Fortress" and had his spies watch it closely. Seeing the peaceful little cottage now, he was freshly ashamed. It was painfully obvious to anyone that sometimes she just needed to get awayâanyone but him apparently.

She opened her eyes as he neared the verandah and regarded him with surprise.

"I didn't know you knew about this place."

His face reddened, most un-general like.

"I figured it was time to come clean about that. I learned about it while I was leading the group at Peregrine's Nest."

There was no surprise in her expression. Still, she seemed more than slightly wounded by his admission.

"So that little old man who always seemed to be out for a walk was one of yours?"

He nodded, ashamed.

She sat back in her chair nodding quietly to herself.

"I wondered. I'd thought he was an Imperial spy but he stopped coming around after Thrawn's death and he didn't seem to fit with Thrawn's subtlety. It made sense that he'd be one of yours."

His shame became embarrassment and sheepishness. So, she'd figured it out long ago. What an idiot he'd been back then.

His eyes met hers wondering which one of them was worse with apologies.

She nodded and got to her feet. Her manner shifted into a casual diplomacy. He wasn't sure how much of it was real.

"Well, welcome General. Would you like something to drink?"

"If it wouldn't be too much effort."

"Of course not," she moved towards the door, "Come, you can have a tour tooâunless you've already had one."

He hadn't expected the delayed jab, nor the quick wave of pain that washed across her features as she spoke but he only swallowed and squared his shoulders. He figured he deserved it.

"No, I've never been here before. I've only seen space photos."

She relaxed visibly and her hospitality seemed more genuine.

"Alright, we'll fix that situation."

He followed her inside and was amazed at how different this place was from her home in the city. There were no fluffy carpets and overstuffed chairs, no signs of wealth or power. The rooms were small and the decorations spartan but there was an elegance about the simplicity and he realized he'd always seen that reflected in Mon Mothma's eyes. He stood in silence as the implications of this reality drifted to him. The plush opulence of her life in the old Imperial Palace served a purpose. It impressed her authority and influence on those who might wish to challenge it and rounded out her image as a Chief of State. Like most politicians her life was showcased to the galaxy and as such nothing could be out of place. He'd always felt she was hiding from herself in that life and he'd hated that. Now he realized that she'd always known who she was. She just hadn't shared all of herself with the galaxy. She hadn't shared everything with him.

He followed thoughtfully as she led him through the sitting area, kitchen, dining space and the large upper floor which included a desk, her bed and several shelves full of holodisks, He looked at the titles and found himself staring at a mélange of galactic historical accounts, minority literature, the occasional mystery or romance as well as multi-disk philosophical and religious tomes most of which looked untouched.

"One of the wonders of retirement is the fact that I now have time to do all the reading I should have done years ago."

"Quite a perk," he said and he looked at her knowingly, "and what have you read lately?"

She walked over to the shelves and ran a finger along the multi-disk collections. She rubbed her fingers together to wipe off the dust and sighed. She looked over at him with a vulnerability that actually frightened Bel Iblis.

"I've been afraid to read a lot of them," she admitted quietly, defeat in her eyes, "afraid that I will discover a way I could have run the war that's better than what I did, that could have"

"Prevented deaths? Made it shorter and smoother?" he finished for her.

"Or prevented it altogether." She sighed, "but I suppose we all have to face our mistakes eventually."

"I suppose we do." he said looking at her strangely for a moment, and then her words found a reverberation inside him and he walked to the window and looked out to where the sun was beginning to sink towards the nearby mountain peaks.

"Arianna used to tell me that I jumped to conclusions too quickly, that I picked sides too readily, without thinking about the consequences. That kept me out of the rebellion for a long time. I kept trying to find the good in the Empire that she seemed convinced I was missing. I wonder sometimes if she was thinking more of what a war would do to the boys, what they would grow up in, or how she'd explain it to them when it was over.

"Maybe she was thinking of what could happen to you. She wanted her sons to have their father." Mon Mothma suggested quietly. She'd spent many years trying to understand the motivations of Garm's heiress wife.

He glanced at her briefly, and then looked back outside.

"They were her life so much more than mine. I was never around." He chuckled with a bitterness that was aged and carved into his soul, "and when I wasâour marriage was never what I'd hoped it could be."

She looked wistfully at his faint reflection in the glass.

"But you loved her."

He returned the look, the setting sun throwing his face into shadow, "with all the youth, hope and idealism in my soul. I wonder sometimes if they died with her."

She had no words for that. When she'd met him all she'd really paid attention to was his inability to commit to the rebellion. Then when he was reeling from having his life ripped out from under him she saw him as yet another reason to be doing what she was doing. She had to keep such a tragedy from happening again. She'd watched his pain, unable to touch it and unable to understand why he'd waited so long to take his stand.

She understood now. She'd understood years ago.

"I wanted to be right, you know."

She looked at him quizzically.

"About you. I wanted you to be corrupt, to be another emperor in disguise. I wanted to prove to myself that I was smarter than a blind follower. I wanted to prove that I really did have a good reason for abandoning the cause that had cost my wife and children their lives.

"I wanted Arianna to be right."

Mon Mothma nodded.

"Maybe she was."

He looked stunned and took a step towards her as his mouth fell open and his eyebrows knotted across his forehead.

"Garm, I've travelled to so many planets, heard so many petitions. There are places in the galaxy that were devastated by the rebellion. For every Alderaan there are twenty planets full of cities reduced to rubble and citizens left with nothing when they were 'liberated' by the Alliance. Sometimes I feel as though the war hurt at least as many as it helped. It's hard to tell people that they're better off when you've just destroyed their livelihood and left them with nothing."

"Then maybe it's time they grew up and learned to fend for themselves, became independent." His voice was firm and angry.

She looked away, "And the rich planets grow richer and stronger as the poor ones grow poorer."

"Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be."

"And maybe not."

He walked over and took her by the shoulders.

"You can't regret it. You've done so much for the galaxy. The Empireâthe empire enslaved and massacred millions of sentient beings, destroyed the jedi and reduced the average independent citizen to a tenant who had to earn their keep. People disappeared in the middle of the night and were killed randomly!"

He closed his eyes and shook his head as though to clear it.

"You know this stuff. You told me this stuff, repeatedly. You can't say that the Emperor, or anything that came from him was good."

"And you can't say that none of the rebellion was bad, that we didn't kill innocents or devastate lives. You were right, I was a dictator, a rebel dictator. In the end the decisions were mine and even the right ones cost so many lives and destroyed so many others. I'm not blameless, Garm."

"Neither am I." he replied, clearly frustrated by her guilt. He rubbed her shoulders briefly, agitatedly before dropping his arms. "Don't take my guilt away from me. My job was full of 'strategic moves' that treated sentient beings like numbers to be juggled till the casualty percentage was acceptable to the general populace. I sent people in knowing in my heart that they wouldn't come back, and I called it right. Yes, I know you wrote the condolence note but you can't take all the guilt yourself, I won't let you."

She swung around to face him and fire glowed in her eyes, "You won't let me?"

He matched her glare with one of his own, "No, I'm as much to blame as you are, maybe more."

"You're hardly to blame."

"You illustrate my point well."

She looked at him in shocked anger for a moment and then her face cracked into an ironic smile.

He took a deep breath.

"If you're going to bog yourself down in guilt, I will force you to talk me out of mine."

She raised her eyebrows.

"That's a promise. Every time you get like this, I will remind you of the hundred things you did right for every one that went wrong, the thousand people you saved for each pilot who diedâwho volunteered to risk his/her life and lost; and then I will suggest to you that my decisions weren't nearly so good. You will be as frustrated with that as I am with you right now."

"Every time?" The expression on her face was a combination of hope, nervousness, and something unreadable.

"Every time."

'Then we'll have to spend a lot of time together."

He just looked at her and the silence that ensued had an odd new texture to it, or maybe it was an old one.

She found herself seeking that prompter again.

What do I do now?

After a long pause, she ran a hand through her short grey hair.

"Would you like that drink now?"

He nodded and followed her back downstairs. He watched her move around the kitchen carrying out simple tasks. He could see the pleasure in her movements, the lightness in her hands as she poured and chopped. The decision of lemon or lime didn't have lives in the balance. Normally he would have asked if he could have helped but he wouldn't give up this chance to watch her like this. He wondered if he'd ever been given the chance to know this simple woman before. How could he have come so close to never knowing her?

Her gaze met his as she brought his drink over to him and he saw a light in her eyes that he was sure he'd never seen before. It made him smile as he took the glass from her.

They carried their drinks back to the porch and sat on the old wooden swing just outside the window. The sun was drifting towards the mountains and the sky was aflame with its light.

"I'm glad you came," she said quietly, not looking at him.

"Are you?" he replied questioningly. She'd never said anything like that to him before. They'd never exchanged declarations of friendship. But then, he'd never really been social with her before. Occasionally he'd seen what could have been joy, or at least relief on her face when he'd shown up but neither had ever before told the other that they enjoyed each other's company. He was surprised that she'd said it first.

"Yes," she continued, "I'm glad you had the chance to see that I don't spend my time here building super weapons in the cellar."

"You never showed me the cellar." He said with a touch of playfulness in his voice.

"The outside doors are around the corner." She returned smoothly, "I wouldn't recommend it. It's low and dark and very dusty, but if you'd like to be sure"

"It's okay," he said smiling, "I trust you."

She became suddenly serious. "Do you then?"

He looked her in the eyes and could see fear there.

"Yes, I do. I took much too long but I do trust you," he sighed, "and do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

They turned back towards the sinking sun for awhile, holding a comfortable silence. There was no ebb and flow of distance now. That seemed to have ceased at last and relaxed both of them, left them at home in one another's presence for the first time.

"If anything," he said into the silence, "I'd say this place itself is a super weapon."

She looked puzzled and slightly concerned.

"You find your clarity here," he explained. "I can see it in the way you talk about this place. Coming here refuels you. It reminds you why you do what you do and helps you make difficult decisions. A leader with clarity of purpose is dangerous to those who oppose her. You are the most dangerous woman I know."

She smiled uncertainly.

"And I'm glad to know you." He added at her look.

Her smile became solid and grew to match his. Then she turned back to the view.

"I wonder," she mused, "Is it the fate of a military man to see weapons everywhere?"

"Is it the fate of a politician to find a political statement around every corner?"

"Maybe."

She looked down the mountains into the giant city.

"I've spent so much of my life dealing in war; I've started to wonder if peace truly exists orssss if it's just that brief moment while enemies prepare for battle.

"Have you felt at peace at all since the war started?"

"Not really, I was always on the lookout for the next battle." She looked at him wistfully.

"So was I," he admitted, "until now."

"Yes, there is peace right now, at this very moment."

She returned her gaze to the mountains as the last few rays of the sun washed over the porch bathing them in a rosy glow. She then turned to look at his face, lined with age and care, and yet still noble and strong, his eyes, clear and bright.

"At this moment," she said quietly, "I feel I've succeeded. The peace is real. It's part of me."

He reached out and brushed his fingers across her cheek, no longer as smooth and clear as it once had been.

Beautiful.

"Then here's to this moment." He said.

And he kissed her.


	4. Epilogue

I have, at last, found time to complete this story in which the characters do not belong to me at all, and for which I am not getting paid.

Thanks for all the comments. Hope you enjoy the final chapter

Part 4 – Epilogue

In the early evening light, Mon Mothma, retired politician, sat on the couch in her plush quarters on Coruscant and read Bakuran philosophy while she waited. It wasn't that he was late, rather she was early, ready a little before her time. She had to admit that this was a fairly common occurrence for her. She finished the chapter and put down the reader. Picking up the activator, she turned on the holonews to see what had happened over the course of the day. She wanted to be informed when she arrived at the Senate gala in just over an hour. The three dimensional image of the newscaster swam into focus as he discussed the latest events. It always relieved her to find her face absent from the screen. Sometimes holojournalists took a sensible approach to their jobs and realized that no one really needed to know about the lives of a retired politician and military man. They didn't need to broadcast the ins and outs of an old friendship anymore; and if the old friends decided to alter that friendship in such a fashion that it made breakfast dates much more convenient, then it wasn't necessary to share that fact with the galaxy.

She watched segments on the diplomatic negotiations at Iphigin and a slightly intrusive profile of Leia's children speculating on their degree of Force sensitivity relative to some non-existent statistics. She'd met Garm at Iphigin. They'd both been sent there as senatorial representatives before the Emperor had seized power. In fact, they'd been there when he'd taken office. She remembered meeting the freshly engaged young senator from Corellia and wondering why they'd sent him, why Corellia had sent a soldier to the Senate. Despite his good looks and slightly daring smile, her opinion of him was rather low. Then she saw him handle the crowd and bring the two sides to agreement on a sticky point. Then she realized that he was a strategist and tactician, almost annoyingly good at what he did. Over the course of the negotiations they'd become friends and when they'd returned to Coruscant to discover that Palpatine had managed to put himself in charge, she was sure they'd worn the same shocked expression.

Not having an Imperialist spouse and then children to deal with, her decision to resist had been instant. She'd spent the next years in wary observance, and then the beginning of the Clone Wars convinced her that her worst fears were about to come to life. The Republic had been enormous and corrupt for years but Palpatine was more than the average self-serving politician. His charisma was bewitching but there was something about him that frightened her and she always felt Garm agreed with her.

He'd acted with far less certainty, refusing to look at the Emperor-to-be in the same stark light she had, but he respected her enough to send her information and take part in the occasional operation despite the disapproval of his wife. She'd always wondered how much Arianna Bel Iblis knew about her husband's involvement in the early rebellion, and despite their current closeness, Garm shared very little about his wife. Most of the time, Mon Mothma understood his decision to keep that private. He did not want to look too closely at his memories of his family, and she would not disturb them either.

All she'd ever known of their marriage had been the tension. He was always tired in those days, always fighting with her and with himself. Sometimes she'd find him sitting in silence by a window stretched so tightly she didn't dare disturb him. Once he'd noticed her looking his way and he'd snapped at her, telling her that if he wanted to sit in silence and think, then she should let him do it whether she agreed with what he was thinking about or not.

She hadn't been able to understand his pain and his feelings of betrayal. Sometimes she feared that she still didn't fully grasp what his choices had cost him. He hid it so well. She wondered how much of him she might never know. She wondered about the life that they could have led if they hadn't spent so much time walking in different directions, masquerading as those with impossibly different opinions.

And in these fears, she would wonder how much of that mattered. They were old, past their time. So what if the match wasn't perfect, it was enough; and in the seventh decade of one's life, perhaps one shouldn't seek more than enough. She stood up to place the reader on a shelf and looked out the window beside it. Was there a time in her life when she believed that there was more than 'enough'?

When it came to her career, certainly. She had never settled for anything. Politics flowed through her veins where most sentients had some sort of vital, life giving fluid. She'd long realized that, no matter what the cost, she couldn't imagine her life being much different from the way it had been. She couldn't imagine making decisions much different from the ones she'd made. If she had to do it again, she'd make the same choices and the same mistakes again.

Garm wouldn't. He'd told her that one night as the two of them were drifting off to sleep.

"Are you still awake," he'd asked quietly into the dark room. Something in his voice suggested that part of him hoped she wouldn't be.

"I am," she'd responded, "just barely."

There was silence.

"Was there something in particular you wanted to say?" she'd asked, "or were you just wondering if I was suffering from insomnia too?"

"It's nothing." He'd said, after awhile.

She reached out and grabbed his hand in the darkness.

"No it isn't".

Garm's whole life had been about making the right move at the right time. If he'd started such an obvious conversation, at least part of him wanted to finish it, and he knew her well enough to expect her to make him finish it.

"If I'd made some different decisions in my life, I wouldn't be here right now," he'd said, "Sometimes I wish I'd made those different decisions."

She'd nodded and squeezed his hand, trying to shunt away the pain in his comment. She regretted the lives she'd sacrificed with her decisions. So did he. Even after so many years, cuts that deep cracked open. Then all they could do was let them ooze. She couldn't solve it for him any more than he could solve it for her. As he would, she waited for him to return from the emotional ride of guilt and justification.

She held his hand and listened to his voice in the darkness as he told her that he regretted his choice to dabble in the rebellion. It had been the right decision, he said with a tight throat, but he would not have made it again. If he could have those years to live again, he would put his family first. At the first sign of rebellion he would take his wife and children to some far corner of the galaxy where they would be safe as civilization collapsed upon it itself.

Mon Mothma switched off the holonews and walked to the window. She stared out over the city as the memory ran through her brain.

And, in that safe corner of the galaxy, she believed, he would have grown old with Arianna. He would have held his grandchildren. He would have felt no regret.

And the Rebellion, without his strategy, would have failed. Mon Mothma would have died fighting for what she believed in. She would have died, and he would not regret it.

That truth had bothered her for a long time. They'd found each other through loss. They'd found happiness in the wake of pain. Still, in all that, surely it was only natural to wish that pain had never happened; to, given the option, choose the life that had been stolen rather than the new one they'd found.

And yet, she wouldn't.

Because, she would admit to herself reluctantly, in Garm, she'd found something that was far more than enough. Her hours with him meant more to her than she'd ever believed anything possibly could. She would not give these years up for anything.

But he would, if he'd had the choice.

She thought of the memories they'd been building for themselves. They'd taken trips solely for pleasure. They'd slowly walked the streets without any sense of urgency. They'd worked through a thousand rounds of Holochess and Flimsiscramble. He'd lost to her Sabacc face and been stuck with the dishes or sweeping more times then they could count.

They could laugh together. They could play together.

She considered this the key to their relationship. After all, they never could work together. Hailed as a great team, they'd blended their efforts and achieved great things but the division of labour had been strictly observed. She did her part and he did his.

Separately.

What they did fit together like cogs in an astromech: synapse for synapse; but like those cogs, each spun on their own axel. The only time they'd blended their work while it was in process had ended in Garm's withdrawal from the rebellion. And she remembered all too clearly how he would not return until she promised him his own axel.

It could never have happened like this when there was so much work to be done. She'd never have seen in him what she could see now were it not for her years of leading and fighting.

They never would have found this sooner, no matter what decisions either had made, no matter what losses they'd faced. This love was only possible now that the work had given way to play, now that the losses had been given the respect they deserved. This Garm, was hers.

Mon Mothma glanced again at the sun setting over the clocktower. It was time to go.

She turned and started towards the door, reaching the entrance to the hall at the same time as Garm reached it, having exited the bedroom in full ceremonial uniform. With that Corellian twinkle in his eye, he offered her his arm and she linked her own with it, smoothing her cream coloured gown with the other hand as they walked down the hall together.

It was true what the old philosophers had said:

Timing is everything.

The End


End file.
